Pretty China Doll
by Of Stories Told
Summary: A new case has everyone's favourite detective stumped as he struggles to figure out the killer's plan before it's too late. One where if he's not careful, will hit close to home. Sequel to Shower Time Musings.
1. Dolls

**Disclaimer:** _Characters belong to J.K. Rowling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle respectfully. Enjoy._

* * *

Emily sighed tiredly as she walked home, eyes wary and alert as she strained to look around her. She hated taking the shortcut through the park at night, but given the time she hadn't much of a choice to her growing ire. Work has gone on longer then usual today; her homey cafe attracting the attention of a few cold and lonely stragglers. She hadn't the heart to turn them away, even as the clock slowly ticked onwards and the light of day gave in to night.

Usually the walk home didn't bother her too much. But at night the roads always seemed to take on such a sinister gleam. It didn't help that her daughter, now in secondary; seemed to delight in researching all she could of the possible dangers to be found by a young woman walking alone at night. The silly girl took far too much delight in telling her of all of her recent discoveries, which in turn made it difficult to walk anywhere without running from even the smallest of noises; screaming bloody murder all the way to the relative safety of her flat.

Honestly, sometimes it felt as though technology was more of a curse then a gift. Especially in the hands of her daughter.

Chuckling to herself at the thought, she meandered down the darkly lit path. Honestly, she was overreacting. She had walked down this path more times then she could count and the most dangerous thing she'd ever seen was a squirrel having what seemed to be a vicious battle with a cat over a small piece of pastry.

Hardly something to write home about.

Regardless, she still kept a sharp eye out, not one to tempt fate by staying in an area that seemed to be created for the sole purpose of making even a flower's shadow seem monstrous.

Though it wasn't too bad she supposed, the park did have several street lights to help her on her way, she just hated walking around it at night, never knowing who could be hiding in the corner, just waiting for her unsuspecting self to come along. The dreadful rumors that have been sprouting about these past few years didn't help any, even if she didn't put much stock on them.

After all, it's not as if a whole village can truly disappear in one night.

Right?

She laughed quietly to herself, she sounded absolutely paranoid. Shaking her head ruefully she quickened her pace, her thoughts filled on what she would be making for dinner as she chastised her daughter for causing her to grow so scared of her own shadow. No doubt the silly dear would get a kick out of that, and would probably tease her about it for weeks to come.

Yet as she turned the last corner before the park's exit she couldn't help but pause. There was a young girl sitting on the park's bench, fast asleep. She was a young thing, couldn't have been much older then her own daughter, give or take several years. The girl had lovely red hair that fell to her shoulders in gentle waves, her long eyelashes were shut tight, casting small shadows on her soft pink cheeks.

Emily couldn't help but inwardly coo at the adorable picture the young dear made, especially given how she was dressed. She was wearing a rather old fashioned white lace dress with light pink flowers sewn on the bottom, a beautiful soft pink ribbon tied at her waist, the bow just barely seen from where she stood. Her hands were rested upon her legs, covered with delicate white gloves. She held a pink rose close as she slumbered on unaware to her surroundings. The girl made for a rather stunning picture, and for a moment she couldn't help but muse on how much like a living doll the young dear appeared to be.

Breaking out of her musings she walked forward, intent on waking up the child and sending her off home. The poor girl would catch her death out here, and no doubt her own mother must be worried sick. It was rather late after all, she had most likely fallen asleep for a short nap that went on longer then had been expected. Her own daughter had been guilty of such a thing a time or two before; always bashfully laughing afterwards as she explained just why she was home so late on a school night. She smiled softly and gently shook the girl's shoulder, hoping to wake her up without accidentally frightening her.

Yet she didn't stir. She frowned and shook her head, tsking at the sight. The poor dear must have been sleeping out here for far longer then she'd first assumed, her skin being rather cool to the touch as the girl refused to even twitch. No doubt she would be terribly sick tomorrow from sleeping out here for so long.

"Come on then poppet, wake up." She said softly, shaking the girl's shoulder with a bit more force this time.

Yet still she didn't stir.

An odd feeling began to bloom in her chest, making her feel distinctly off as she slowly backed away from the girl. She felt rather lightheaded, her heart seeming to move slowly in her chest as a sense of things being horribly wrong began to overcome her. Her eyes seemed to sharpen, taking in the details of the slumbering teen before her.

She had marveled before on how much the girl had looked like a doll, how she regretted that now.

The girl was still, unmoving. Her chest never rose to take in air, her eyes never fluttered from sleep. And as her own eyes slowly moved upward she finally took in the dark bruise marks on the girl's pale and slender neck.

They were in the shape of fingers.

It would be hours later when she would finally be able to make it home, her daughter bombarding her with questions she couldn't and wouldn't answer. She would look on at her child and collapse into tears, holding her baby close as the image of the girl in the park constantly replaced itself with that of her own child.

All she would remember of that night was that poor and beautiful child, and her never ending screams as she realized the truth of that once innocent looking scene.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry for taking so long to get this out. I was more then halfway done with this chapter and the next when I was hit with a terrible writers block for this story. However, I was finally able to push through to have the first installment of this tale released._

 _As you can see, it'll be focused around a crime! Though if our favourite detective can solve it in time is another matter entirely. Next chapter will feature everyone's favourite detective as the story slowly falls into place. Again sorry for taking so long to get this story out, I hope you all enjoy!_


	2. Case One

"Another one?" Sherlock asked as he approached Lestrade. The man looked haggard, his face set in a dark scowl as he watched his team work. The mood was subdued, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife as he studied everyone around him. There was a hysterical woman being calmed down by Donavan, though the term was relative as the woman was stricken with fear and shock; Donavan seeming to be doing more harm then good for the situation. It had taken little more then a glance for Sherlock to write her off as a possible suspect. She was far too emotional, and he could tell her reactions weren't an act. She was genuinely horrified by what she'd stumbled across. No doubt her thoughts were on her daughter, who Sherlock mused was about the same age as the victim, though thankfully for the woman didn't fit the killer's M.O.

Lestrade nodded his head sharply, his jaw tense. Cases such as this one always left him tightly wounded and irritable. "A girl this time." He breathed harshly through his nose, the stress from this case was obviously taking a toll on the Inspector. "She was only fifteen Sherlock." His eyes darkening at the admission. This case was starting to become personal for the aging inspector, and Sherlock wondered what would happen if they didn't catch the killer soon.

"How horrid." Murmured Watson, remorse clear in his tone as he stared at the body of the young girl they were there to see. She has been moved off the bench she had originally been left on, the team having placed her on a plastic tarp for the moment until they could take her to the morgue. She looked young, and from their position, it seemed as if she was only asleep, waiting once more to wake up.

Sherlock hummed, putting on the gloves offered at the site as he walked towards the girl's prone form, both Lestrade and Watson following close behind.

"Who was she?" He questioned as he moved to stand over the girl's corpse. She hadn't been dead long, perhaps 10 hours at the most. This killer didn't enjoy keeping his victims for very long.

"Elizabeth Jones." Lestrade answered, his reply terse as he struggled to reign in his emotions about the case. "Her mother thought she was at footy practice, didn't call us until a few hours ago; when she first discovered her daughter had never even made it to school."

"He's working faster then." Sherlock replied, crouching down and touching the girl's cold pale cheek. "He's excited but agitated, something's changed." His eyes roved over her body. Strangulation, just like the others. He paused at her eyes, a frown tugging at his lips.

"Her eyes were kept this time?" He asked even though he could see the slight bulge that showed they were still in place. Several of the past victims hadn't been so lucky.

Lestrade nodded. "Like the first two." His jaw twitched again, his hands clenched and unclenched as the detective tried to reign in control of his anger. "They're green."

Watson swallowed thickly. "Same M.O. as the others then?"

Sherlock didn't need to look back to know what Lestrade's silence meant.

He tsked loudly in annoyance.

Five victims.

There had been a total of five victims since this case started, and they still were no closer to catching this deranged killer then they had been in the beginning.

He felt a wave of irritation hit him as he went back to studying the girl. The murders had all been happening several weeks after the another. Except for the last two, they had happened only days apart. The killer was getting impatient, he was no longer toying with his victims.

Each of the victims had been taken in the morning. Three girls, two boys, all of them with androgynous features and red hair. Three of the victims had green eyes, the ones that didn't had their eyes gouged out of their sockets. They were all rather young, the oldest being in her early twenties. He kept each of his victims for a total of twelve hours at maximum, where he would then rape them before strangling them each with his bare hands.

Sherlock looked back at the white lace dress the girl wore. Each of the victims had been dressed in something similar, even the boys. The clothes were all handmade, none of them wore shoes. After their death, the killer would apply a light coating of makeup on their face, giving them each a doll like countenance. Afterwards, he would then display their bodies in a public area, yet somehow he managed to never be caught while doing so.

It was flummoxing, yet drove his curiosity to greater lengths as he wondered just how the mad man was getting away with it all.

He knew the killer was targeting someone specific. The fact that they all shared the same hair colour was a dead give away in that direction. The green eyes were another clue. The killer had simply been refining his art up to this point, yet it seemed that the man now considered himself ready to go after his real prize.

He scowled, time was running out.

He knew with absolute certainty that the next victim would be the last.

He stood up, angrily taking off his gloves and startling both of the men with him.

"Well?" Asked Lestrade. "Any clues?"

Sherlock nodded, mind still going a mile away as he tried to make sense of the picture in front of him. "This man is done practicing, his next target will be the boy he's wanted to kill since the start."

Lestrade looked at him in confusion. "How can you tell it's a boy that he's after, three of the victims were girls."

Sherlock shook his head closing his eyes as the information seemed to all gather in front of him, the puzzle slowly becoming clearer with each moment, though he was still missing something. "He's crueler to the boys, takes out more aggression on them because they're not the one he's truly after. The girls are an afterthought, they were easier to take then the boys were but didn't please him half as much."

"Have we been able to find a supplier for the cloth he uses to make the dresses?" Watson asked, taking in the delicate lace dress the girl had been donned in after her traumatic death.

"No." Lestrade grumbled out, still staring at Sherlock. "The material is rather old fashioned, and some of it we can't even tell if it's silk or some other material entirely. We're starting to think he makes it all himself somehow, or gets it from someone who does."

"He doesn't make the clothes." Sherlock interrupted. "The clothes are made by a woman, older in years given the design used on the outfits. She has no idea what he's buying these dresses for, probably thinks it's for a daughter or niece."

"Well that should help then." Murmured Lestrade. "There's not that many seamstresses in London after all."

Sherlock nodded absently, staring down at the girl before him. He was missing something. A crucial piece to tie together this whole case, to help him find this killer.

And time was running out on whether he would be able to discover the truth before it was too late.

* * *

Sherlock shrugged off his jacket, pausing when he saw a rather ratty and worn looking coat hung on the hook just next to his own.

His hand twitched.

"Don't even think about it." John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, shrugging off his own jacket as he watched Sherlock's hand move steadily closer to the old coat.

Sherlock scoffed in irritation. "But look at it John! That sorry excuse for a winter garment wouldn't be able to keep a mouse warm, let alone it's actual owner." He sneered in disgust at the offending garment. "Besides the colour is atrocious, who even wears that shade of orange? I'll be doing him a favour by getting rid of it."

John looked heavenward for a moment before turning his attentions back to his flatmate. "He's going to call the police on you one of these days, I swear it Sherlock." He shook his head as he started walking up the stairs to their lot. "You can't just keep stealing his clothes and replacing it with new ones!" John gave him a knowing look. "Not to mention what he would say if he knew you were keeping his "atrocious" garments." He paused. "You know this could be considered stalking right? And theft, don't forget that part."

Sherlock merely hummed in thought, quickly grabbing said coat when John's back was turned. "The authorities won't be called on me, otherwise he would have done it by now." He grinned to himself, feeling smug as he hid the coat behind him, John none the wiser. "In truth he finds me amusing, and I doubt he's all that bothered by my gifts." John merely scoffed, though his silence was agreement enough in Sherlock's opinion.

He was sure that his singing partner enjoyed the gifts, even if they confused him. Otherwise those cookies he had received from their neighbor through Mrs. Hudson would have held laxatives in them at the very least.

John snorted. "Your idea of dating leaves much to be desired." He paused. "You should at least go talk to him." John looked over at him in amusement as they reached their flat. "It's been six months already and you still haven't even had a single conversation with him. For all you know he's some randy old man that you've fallen head over heels for."

"He works odd hours." Sherlock grumbled, wanting to change the conversation to something else. Their neighbor was a mystery, though through no fault but Sherlock's own. He had yet to go near the man's own flat, and still knew barely anything about him.

It didn't bother him, he would find a reason to finally meet this strange man eventually.

Regardless of John's nattering that he was simply making excuses.

He wasn't, honest.

Some things just shouldn't be rushed, and in his opinion this was one of them.

Besides, it wasn't as though the man needed this ratty old thing, much better for Sherlock to take it off his hands. He had already left a new coat with Mrs. Hudson, one he thought the other would appreciate far more then this old thing.

He could be thoughtful when he wanted to be after all.

* * *

Harry hummed to himself as he opened the door to his flat. He knew something was up when he'd seen the smile Mrs. Hudson was failing to hide, had she even been trying that is.

"Oh to be young again." She'd sighed dreamily before handing him a package along with a few homemade cookies as she sent him on his way.

Setting down the cookies on the small kitchen table he'd bought a few weeks back, he moved to sit down, still staring warily at the package in his hand.

He was starting to lose count on how many 'gifts' he'd received in the past few months.

Though he wasn't sure they could all be considered that.

The first was simple enough, a small bouquet of lillies. It had been rather sweet and he'd happily accepted it when he'd found them left on his doorstep.

Though some were more… questionable then others.

He still had no idea why his admirer thought he needed an old tome of anatomy, filled with rather vivid pictures, and he truly hoped the bone he'd been left for Sirius wasn't human, though he still wasn't all too sure at this point.

Speaking of which he smiled as he watched his godfather lazily yawn, sitting up from the dog bed he'd been sleeping in and slowly padding his way over.

"Hey there." He said softly at the small grumble the grim gave him as his snout rubbed against Harry's pant leg. "Looks like we have another gift." Sirius blinked up at him at that, sniffing at the package before snorting and moving to sit next to him, seemingly curious on what this one would hold.

Harry smiled sadly before turning back to start ripping at the rather dull brown paper. He wondered if his admirer purposely picked something unassuming to wrap their gifts in, making it harder for Harry to guess what it might be.

He sighed in relief when he opened it to reveal something normal for once.

It was a dark blue pea coat, close to his size and looked incredibly warm. He stood up to hold it against himself, smiling as he stroked the soft material. He would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy these gifts. Years of never having been given anything for any of his birthdays or Christmas had made him cherish any presents he received all the more, regardless on their oddity or not.

It truly was a lovely coat, and made him wish once more that Mrs. Hudson would let him know just who his admirer was so that he could properly thank them.

Not to mention it finally gave him an excuse to throw out his old-

He paused before groaning and ducking his head.

"This means my old one is going to be gone by the time I get downstairs, doesn't it?"

Sirius's huff like laughter was his only response.

* * *

 **A/N:** _Sorry for the long wait. I started working nights during the summer, and it's literally killed all my creativity. I am trying to get back in the hang of things though, and hope you all enjoy this new chapter._


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